Carmen Dog

by Carol Emshwiller

  Pooch had run away a few times before, but that was when she was much younger. She had always been found in the neighborhood, her master driving around block after block until he discovered her in some backyard not far from home. After disposing of his wife, he proceeds to search for Pooch in his usual way, little dreaming that she is already in New York. After an hour of fruitless circling, he finally realizes that this time she is not to be found in this manner. His feelings for her begin to change as he realizes that she would no longer, could not possibly any longer, be wandering about in someone's yard behind the lilacs.

  He understands finally that it is a desirable young woman he is looking for, and the more he thinks about it the more desirable she becomes. What's more, she's his. He picked her out, bought her, trained her, taught her everything she knows (or so he thinks, anyway), disciplined her, took her—or used to take her—for walks.... And what a good hard worker she has turned out to be in the end! How sweet and uncomplaining! Just the sort of wife he always wanted. Never once an argument the whole of her life with him. He is thinking how all might be, at last, harmonious. Life could begin again with her beside him. Perhaps it could be a time of new and strange excesses he never dared even to think about, let alone perform when he was younger or with his wife (who always rather frightened him) for, after all, Pooch is another kind of creature entirely. Courage would hardly be needed with such as her. If, for instance, he wanted to tie her, spread-eagled, to the bed, she would not wonder at this behavior. He decides to call the police as well as missing persons and tell them that it is his wife who has run off with their child ... his beautiful young wife.

  * * * *

  Why is it, the doctor has been wondering (along with many other professional people), why is it that only the females of the various species are affected by all this changing? Why have no males, as far as has been ascertained, been changing too? Surely if extraterrestrial dust or some such substance had dropped from distant stars, the men could not have avoided it. Perhaps it isn't of stellar origin at all, but atomic radiation, or maybe it's simply industrial waste. But the doctor and other professionals would rather think about the stars, and do—or else about the moon, for haven't women always been influenced by it? Perhaps it has changed in some way since being stepped on, especially a giant step by a man. Specialists in women's problems have been called upon, ad hoc committees set up. The scholarly journals are full of conjectures, but no good answers or solutions have been forthcoming except that perhaps all the women should be inoculated with male hormones.

  The doctor thinks it is a simple question of willpower ... a case of mind over matter (males), or matter over mind (females), and this very lack of willpower, he believes, is a form of aggression. Females, then, the worm in the apple, as ever; or rather, the first bite into it. Always—even before all this happened—in a state of disequilibrium; exaggerating themselves and their plight, sighing, braying, little cries of ai, ai, vey, vey, piu, piu, oh, ow, poo, and so forth. What difference does it make, when all is said and done, he is thinking, that they take the shapes when they already have had the sounds down pat for so long? And what passionate undercurrents in all these voices! (He has often found them downright embarrassing ... even his own mother, though not, thank God, his wife.) Passion has always been their undoing, while he himself has always been ruled by the intellect. More even than most men, so perhaps (he thinks) he is the one uniquely chosen to return the world to its former comfortable dependability.

  A few simple experiments may suffice to prove his willpower theory. Then it would simply be a matter of finding the leaders—those who have instigated the others in this lack-of-willpower behavior—and retraining them with electric shocks or any sort of aversion therapy. Perhaps it can be done in his large, airy basement. Put up a few cages and section off a laboratory. Take in several homeless waifs and wives. Make sure they get a good breakfast. Surely many would be happy with little more than a roof over their heads. It's spring but it's still pretty cold outside at night. Certainly they won't cost much. It's the equipment that will be the major expense. He decides to apply for a grant at once.

  He has read in Marcus Aurelius that “Matter in the universe is supple and compliant, and the Reason which controls it has no motive for ill-doing; for it is without malice, and does nothing with intent to injure, neither is anything harmed by it."

  No, it is clear that it is not the fault of Matter at all, but of the female.

  * * * *

  Lincoln Center on a Friday evening. The several audiences are strolling about in front of the fountain; have not, in fact, collected themselves into audiences at all, but still function basically as individuals or as couples. What a wonderful diversity exists among the women! What feathers, scales, and furs! What sounds! Laughs and shrieks that reach the highest C. Seeing them, one might wish also for banana women, apple women, pine-tree women, but one can't have everything and this suffices to all but the greediest seekers after life.

  Pooch, before the splendor of Lincoln Center, watching the elegantly dressed women, is reminded of a Japanese poem:

  —

  Butterfly

  Or falling leaf,

  Which ought I to imitate

  In my dancing?

  —and also a line from another poem: “Very little happiness would be enough."

  She's had nothing to eat since morning, but, though it certainly would help to lift her spirits, food is not what she hungers for. As it happens, she receives exactly what she wants most of all. Or rather, the second best thing. Someone hands her a ticket he can't use. Not for the Metropolitan, but for the New York City Opera. Yet even this is beyond her wildest dreams, and by some strange quirk of fate, the opera is to be Carmen.

  Pooch thanks God that the baby has had a hard day and is sound asleep. She tucks it under her arm much as one would carry a bunch of books and enters the theater panting slightly, short of breath from the excitement of it all. Her simple elegance belies her inappropriate clothes (ill-fitting jeans and torn, discarded sweater that once belonged to the oldest child of the family). She carries herself well and people notice her, though inside she is feeling small and spotted.

  And so the opera begins, Pooch whimpering occasionally with a pleasure that cannot be contained. When Carmen sings: “L'amour est un oiseau rebelle ... that nobody can ever tame,” Pooch is enraptured. Yes, it's so true, so true. That's just the way love is. She is thinking of the only males in her life (not counting the oldest child): her master and the psychotherapist, for whom she already has a full-blown transference.

  But of course (as could have been predicted) it is Micaela's song that moves her most of all, even though her French is rudimentary. “Je dis que rien ne m'épouvante” and “Seule en ce lieu sauvage ... j'ai tort d'avoir peur; ... ” bring tears to her eyes. Pooch might be said to be in somewhat the same fix that Micaela is in. Suddenly she can no longer contain herself and raises her voice in a mournful obbligato to that of the soprano on stage.

  Everyone turns to look at the rear of the balcony, wondering where this strange sound is coming from. Pooch has the words all wrong, but they are emotionally correct and full of homesickness and fear. Her voice is obviously untrained but has a surprising power. Something spellbinding about it. Something wild. It has what Roland Barthes calls “grain": “(One hears only that),” he writes, “Beyond (or before) the meaning of the words ... from deep down in the cavities, the muscles, the membranes, the cartilages...” The audience is, for just a moment, won over. The Micaela on stage stops singing, confused, and Pooch goes on by herself, her trembling audible. But this lasts only a minute, for the baby begins to cry. Of course Pooch is quickly hustled out amid catcalls, boos, and hisses. She hunches over in shame, the baby screaming.

  Shortly afterward, and perhaps precipitated by the unforeseen commotion, the Carmen on stage begins to limp and whinny in a very strange manner. It is clear to all that she cannot be counted on to finish the opera. In truth, the impr
esario has been worried of late, wondering how to replace these highly trained but changing women. He has even, just for a moment, thought of castrating little boys to ensure a crop of sopranos for the future, but now he realizes that there is a better source he hadn't recognized. He rushes to the lobby to try to intercept Pooch before she can get away. Here, he is thinking, is something wild and new to work with, though will she be able to practice as hard as necessary, and with a baby no less? No doubt she is poor, but he will finance the training. He will put his foot down, though, on helping with day care. She will have to find resources of her own where that is concerned. Yes, there is power here that he has not heard before. But she's already gone by the time he gets to the door. “Find that woman,” he yells to a ticket taker; but the young man is running off in the wrong direction.

  It is unlikely that he would find her, anyway, since she is soon to be netted by the dog catcher; for, as she flies from the scene of her humiliation, she runs unthinking down the middle of the street, hardly aware of the honking. She is booked for chasing cars, though of course that was the farthest thing from her thoughts, but her protests are in vain. The pound is not exactly the place for a trial by a jury of one's peers, so she is summarily found guilty as charged. And as usual, she does have that guilty look. If only she had twenty-five dollars instead of two seventy-five in quarters (laundry money she hadn't even meant to take, but found in her pocket after she'd left—she would never take money on purpose, even when running away and even when it might have helped to feed the baby). Twenty-five dollars and she could buy her way out and no problem.

  Worse yet, they know who she is and will notify her master first thing in the morning, for Pooch is still wearing her collar with the license on it. Being a law-abiding creature, she had not even considered taking it off.

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  Chapter 2: In Which Pooch Becomes a Vegetarian

  Music ... carries the soul captive across the rough and stormy sea of life, and stands beyond the vale of time to welcome with angelic voice the wandering soul.

  —H. Sherwood Vining

  The cages are quite cramped for those creatures who are becoming approximately the size and shape of humans, and of course none of the cages is of a size to hold those tending toward bear or elk. Pooch is squeezed into one on the second tier. At first they don't know quite what to do with the baby. They are thinking that perhaps it can be put up for adoption later if no one calls for it within the week. Young things are always so cute they're hardly ever hard to get rid of. One of the men there has it in his head that Pooch, herself, may be valuable for quite different reasons. He is thinking seriously of stealing her and taking her home with him. He thinks that he might make quite a bit of money in one of two possible ways: her breeding is obvious, and so is her virginity. At any rate, for the time being, she goes into the cage and they decide to put the baby in with her. That way it won't be making a fuss. So the two are left with a bowl of water, a rather dirty bowl in fact, and a dirty bowl of kibbles. Pooch is used to such simple fare as this, having eaten little else all her life, though now and then she's had a tidbit from the table, which frequently she wished she hadn't had. It only whetted her appetite for things she didn't dare allow herself. She is worrying about the baby, though, and what about its vitamins! Now it refuses all but a few mouthfuls of food. Yet it seems the little thing is all screamed out and, thank goodness, soon falls asleep again now that things have calmed down a little. Pooch is too despondent to do more than curl up, hugging it to her budding breasts (which are all coming in shapely, firm, and perky. The best kind).

  Above her on the third tier is a brilliantly dressed creature, black, red, and yellow—or rather, what Pooch suspects are those colors, for red she cannot see at all (she has been warned about just such stripes as these)—and who, Pooch soon learns, calls herself Phillip and was picked up for hitchhiking on Route 95. Pooch got a good look at her while being helped up to her own cage. Phillip had looked back at Pooch with a rather scary, hypnotic stare and an ironic grin, tongue between her teeth. Of course, being underneath, Pooch can't see her now. She is trying to remember: “black to yellow, dangerous fellow” or is it “safe fellow” or “black to red, you're dead” or what? And which stripe is the red one? But considering that Phillip probably was at one time a pet Pooch thinks she's most likely perfectly safe. But what a gorgeous creature! What sinuous, serpentine grace!

  As soon as they are locked in for the night, the bare bulbs blazing overhead, the whole place comes alive with the talk and attempts at talk on several levels of expertise. Phillip, it turns out, has been here longer than anyone else—almost a whole month. “There'th a reathon for that,” she says, lisping seductively. Her tongue, of its own accord it seems, extends farther than is necessary to form the esses. “And you can get anything you want, ath I do. Better food, drink, thigaretteths. You name it, I get it. Not everybody can, but you can, Pooch. You have ... well, nearly the figure for it and you carry yourself well, though you shouldn't look so shy. Men take you for how you present yourself, you know. You have to learn to use your body."

  "Yes, but, but, but,” Pooch answers, stuttering a bit more than usual because of her anxiety, “but whatever it is you do, it hasn't brought you any closer to escaping from this dreadful place."

  "But will,” Phillip says. “Will too, one of thethe dayth. Anyway, know what's going to happen tomorrow? You may have no choice but to do ath I do or elth."

  "What?"

  "All thothe who have been here over one week—not counting mythelf; that ith—all but me..."

  At this moment a roar of rage from beneath them.

  "You're a brute, Isabel,” Phillip calls down, “and don't know it."

  "Not so. I love. I always love, more and more."

  Pooch wonders whether Isabel is referring to life in general that she loves, or to creatures in general, or to some particular creature. When Pooch had been brought in she had had only the slightest glimpse of sleek black hair, beady eyes, and sharp teeth from the cage below.

  "At any rate,” Phillip continues, “love or not, Isabel, you will be taken off to that far room there along with theveral otherth. All female, by the way. If you'll notice, Pooch, the pound ith no longer for any but uth femaleth. And you'll be killed, Ithabel, and then dragged out through here in front of all of uth and out to a truck—I've theen it—then they will take you to be burned or uthed for fertilizer or maybe even made into dog food ... kibbles, for all anyone knowth. All of you, unleth you do ath I do, or can do ath I do, though not all can."

  And now groans, moans, and squawks from all over the room and a kind of yawn of rage from Isabel.

  "It's political,” someone shouts, “or cost-effective, and something must be done about it."

  "Is this what they call a democracy?” Another voice.

  "This never was your democracy anyway.” Scornfully.

  Pooch nearly throws up, thinking of the kibbles she has just gobbled so greedily. She decides she will not eat any sort of meat ever again and that she will especially not eat kibbles, whatever they may say is in them. She makes a silent vow to be a vegetarian from now on even if she has to starve to do it. Better that than even the remote possibility of eating one's friends and fellow sufferers. At the same time, she vows not to be lured into the kind of behavior Phillip is talking about, however much it may seem like something Carmen would do in a similar situation, and however much it may be of benefit to herself. She realizes that, though she would like to play at being Carmen and sing and dance the Carmen role, she herself is of quite the opposite nature. For instance, she is thinking that if she had had Don José in love with her, she, unlike Carmen, would have stuck with him in the first place and then the opera would have come out entirely differently and, Pooch realizes with a sudden little shiver of doubt, probably not even have begun at all ... not got off the ground, or certainly have bogged down in the middle.

  Yes, her kind of love is probably too tr
ue and steadfast for most people to put up with for very long, either in life or in art. Perhaps it scares them or makes them wonder about their own obligations, and of course it is quite out of fashion. Pooch knows that. Well, she thinks, I shall love my kind of love anyway, doggedly, for I must certainly do the best I can with my own nature and if my nature is to love too well or from afar or to be grateful for crumbs—as the psychotherapist put it, though at the time I thought he meant those scraps under the table, and I was grateful for them—well, so be it. But some day I will find a love that mirrors my own. Pooch resolves then and there to save herself until her true love comes along. For a few moments she falls into a deep and satisfying daydream common to female creatures of her age and experience, or rather inexperience, but soon these thoughts bring her back to thoughts of her beloved master. Certainly she will not be here long, only a few days, if that, because her master is to be notified in the morning. It's hard for Pooch to get the idea out of her head that when he comes, everything will be all right. She has to keep reminding herself that this is not the case at all, that it is she who ran off and when he comes for her, here she will be with the bitten baby, as though having run off with the evidence. But if she apologizes profusely enough and promises to work much harder, to get up very early, eat less, and not take even one little moment for herself or even one little penny ever again for such frivolities as flowers (in spite of what the psychologist said), perhaps in this way she can make it up to him or do penance of some sort. “Anything,” she will say to him, “I'll do absolutely anything: lick your feet, walk one step behind your left heel ... just let me stay and serve you and let me see the baby now and then if only from a distance and, should the mistress bite me, all the better, then.” She hopes that after she says all this and makes the promises, he'll see that she's worth keeping—a thought not uncommon to many creatures of her sex.